


summer migration

by Cerberuss



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Weecest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-26
Updated: 2019-12-26
Packaged: 2021-02-26 17:35:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21972214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerberuss/pseuds/Cerberuss
Summary: He can see them here because the backyard smells of high school summers and Dean calls his name from inside as though dinner’s ready, threatening to donate his portion to the possums in the roof if he doesn't move his ass. Sam sits under the criss-cross of the clothesline and listens to the chirp of the evening bugs and daydreams.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Comments: 5
Kudos: 140





	summer migration

He’s laying under the clothesline under the sinking sun, the plastic thread running criss-cross shadows over his face, a few broken and dangling into the bushes because no one has expendable time or energy to tie them back into place. A single sock hangs pegged from two or ten washes ago, dirty again with the rain, its other pair lost at the back of an empty drawer, or under the footwell in a car half eaten by rust in some second hand yard, forgotten. 

The grass is cool under Sam’s back, itching his bare arms, dry with the summer sun. There’s a rose bush riddled with weeds, and the huge red petals seem out of place in a garden with no one here to keep it. He’d take to taming it, if they weren’t so constantly high strung, ready to shove clothes into duffles and throw the car ninety down the dirt driveway the minute they get a call from Bobby, any whiff of the paranormal.

Sam thinks he would have liked to go to school here, if he was fifteen again. Can imagine sitting in the backyard on a day like today sucking the liquid out of freezepop until it’s only plain ice, the cold numbing his skin as he gets wet fingers all over the pages of his homework. Can almost hear the low hum of nightly Jeopardy from through the open screen door, the clatter of cutlery in the kitchen as Dean boils plain pasta for dinner because it's too hot for anything else and Dad hasn’t been home in weeks to stock up their fridge with anything more substantial. 

Maybe Dean would have a job at the mechanic just out of town, pick Sam up from school in the Impala like he did the times John had let them settle. The black reflecting sun into his eyes as Dean leant against the passenger side door with grease swiped low on his grey shirt, his hair wet with the sweat of laying under chassis all day, chewing gum with an expression that said he was glad their father never fought him into finishing high school. Would say, “Heya Sammy, have a good day?” Ruffle his hair like he was still a child; and it’s _Sam_ thank you very much. He’d jab two fingers into his gut and Dean would put him in a headlock and throw him in the shotgun seat and drive them home with the windows all the way down. 

The house was self contained, far enough down its own road that they could practise shooting just left of the clothesline he’s baking under, knock empty spaghetti cans off the fence so John wouldn’t hound them for slacking off when he returned. Dean lining them back up one by one and saying, “Cmon Sam, pretend they’re zombies.” 

They’d found an old, battered Xbox by the gutter a month ago and Dean had opened it up, dusted it out and hooked the red, white and yellow up to the front of their box television. Slapped Sam on the back when the logo crackled clear on the screen. Drove them down to the video store to rent a copy of Call of Duty, winked at Sam as he tucked the case of Tomb Raider under his jacket because he “liked a girl with blood on her hands” and “I bet you can zoom right in on her tits.” 

He’d shoot them off the fence just like that, one by one by one like no video game could have ever taught him and Dean would tackle him into the grass in triumph, the gun falling heavy beside his head. They’d tousle and Sam would kick out his spindly legs trying to find purchase while Dean had his fingers up under his ribs and if he didn’t stop tickling him he was going to piss himself, his eyes wet with tears begging his brother to get the fuck off of him.

The grass would scratch at his skin where his shirt hiked up, Dean’s hair dirty with twigs and they’d stay like that because Dad wasn’t home and Sam liked how big his brother’s hands were when they spread over his chest. How Dean’s eyes would darken and his breath would come shorter in a way that had nothing to do with their fight. How he’d put his mouth on Sam’s pulse right up under his jaw and leave it there, mouthing at his sweat and dirt shined skin. _You’re so fuckin’ good Sammy. So proud of you._

Sam could imagine Dean washing the Impala on the front lawn, his shirt plastered to his back as Sam sat on the front step out of the midday sun and read his English texts. Of Mice and Men or One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest or some other classic with bible-thin pages that yellowed at the edges because they had to fish them out of the dollar bin at the thrift store and pay with the silver change Sam found behind the back of the couch.

The windchime would ring over his head as Pink Floyd sung about being Comfortably Numb from the open car doors. Sam biting his nails down to the bed subconsciously until Dean would inevitably throw a sponge in his direction, hitting him square in the shoulder, soap flicking onto the deck and up the clapboard walls, drenching his shirt. And Sam would complain because water had soaked into the pages of his book and blurred the ink, when in all honesty he didn’t care much for Lennie and his dead mouse anyway. He’d grab the hose and put his fingers over the opening until the spray turned harsh and Dean had his hands up in surrender saying, “Don’t you fuckin’ dare, you’ll regret it you little bitch.” 

Dean would run through the house with wet feet to fetch clean towels and they’d sit back with their legs swinging off the deck, feeling the sun doing more work than the towels could ever, Sam fiddling with the loose strands of Dean’s hem trying not to think about how prominent the freckles over his brother’s nose got in the summer, bold against his light skin and green eyes. 

He’d blurt out that he’d want to stay, like he did whenever they settled in a proper house rather than motel rooms. Beg Dean to talk Dad into another couple of weeks just until the school term ended because he’d have tests coming up but more importantly he liked that he knew the exact songs the birds sang when he woke up in the morning and that he could count on their neighbour two miles down the road to wave him good-day on his way to class. 

Dean would say he’d try, he’d try but we’ve gotta move soon Sammy, I’ve got no say in it and Sam would slam the screen door shut behind him and sit under the clothesline in the setting sun and let himself cry until the red of the roses blurred into one watery blob. 

Sam can see them here, because every house they’ve left has been the same. He’s grown up in so many that he doesn’t think he could draw out the floorplans individually without them morphing into each other. _No, dude the Erath house was the one with tyre-swing, not that shithole in Alliance._

He can see them here because the backyard smells of high school summers and Dean calls his name from inside as though dinner’s ready, threatening to donate his portion to the possums in the roof if he doesn't move his ass. Sam sits under the criss-cross of the clothesline and listens to the chirp of the evening bugs and daydreams.

Dean says his name again, but it’s close enough that Sam doesn’t feel stressed to respond. He hears the back door creak open, Dean’s boots on the concrete, and then crunching in the grass by his head. He doesn’t open his eyes, feels the ground shift as Dean sits and presses an open hand to the exposed skin at his belly, sitting cross legged by his hip. 

Sam hums, sun-drunk and warm, hooks their index fingers together and holds his brother there because he can see them here. Sam tying the clothesline strands back into knots because they have the time to make things their own and deserve the satisfaction of betterment. 

Sees them here because they’ve laid in backyards like this one, with Dean’s glossy car magazines spread out over Sam’s back as he kicks his feet in the air and reads something more substantial. He’s laid out the back of houses just like this one and traced his fingers over the spaghetti lines the grass had indented into his brother’s skin the same as he had three states over where the only difference was the colour of the foliage and sound of the bugs. He can see them here because they grew up in backyards like this, with more weeds than grass. 

“Can we stay for a while?” Sam says, when the sun slips behind the house and the only warmth left comes from where Dean is touching his skin.

His brother runs a thumb absentmindedly over his hip, “Yeah Sammy, we can stay for as long as you want.”

They’ll pick up and go eventually, because that long-term kind of domesticity isn’t in their blood, but it’ll be on Sam’s terms and he wants time to prune back the roses. 


End file.
